Owls sing Mozart

I’m a bad blogger, I’m sorry. For those who read my last blog and presumed that once February started I was on a Hunter S Thompson meets Oliver Reed sized bender, you can breathe a sigh of relief. I’m alive. I have started drinking again and the world has become an alcohol fuelled rollercoaster again after the level emotional playing field of abstinent January.

So this is now my second blog. What should I tell you about? Well, my last blog didn’t really tell you anything other than the fact that I’m British and I drink. There’s more to me than that I hope. I’m the singer in a band called Farrah and the reason I’m blogging at all is because I wrote with the uber-talented Ben Romans and also with sublime genius Nate Campany. Ben mentioned this site and said (probably mistakenly) that people out there may be interested to listen to my inane murmurings.

 I am one of those dreaded songwriters (otherwise known as people who didn’t grow up). I am Peter Pan, or more accurately Peter Tin-Pan alley. I also teach songwriting at a university and I sometimes play guitar for people. If you want to check out my licks listen to Kim Richey’s latest record called Chinese Boxes, produced by Giles (son of George!) Martin. I played a few songs on that. I also write music for TV programmes and in my spare time teach otters to waterski.

So. Life. The big question, why are we here, what is it for? I know the answer; I just don’t want to spoil the surprise. Actually, I wake up mystified most days. How did I end up with this job of songwriter? I suppose I’m ideally suited to this job as firstly, I cleverly avoided being good at anything else and secondly,I suffer from wildly-optimistic-syndrome which affects some other members of my family. Our family motto is: “who cares if it’s full or empty, is that glass really mine?” We’d be the people on the Titanic saying as it went down “Well, it was a great trip on the whole”

I’m reading a book called ‘Your Brain On Music’ which posits some interesting theories about how we perceive and create music. The book also challenges some evolutionary psychologist’s dismissal of music as a by-product of some other evolutionary step (a spandrel they call it!), that is, music itself doesn’t actually have any value to the species. Bollocks. I was intrigued to find out that in a lot of cultures the word for music is also the word for dance. The two are impossible to separate.  The other revelation although it should have been obvious to me was that music has now become the bastion of ‘experts’ and has been this way for about 500 years. The public pay to see the ‘professionals’ perform and any mistakes in pitch and timing are to be frowned upon. A language and terminology has developed between musicians that serve to alienate the listener. Amateur musicians and singers are shy about performing in the same way that an amateur painter would be if a friend asked to look at their canvas. The same goes for amateur poets. However, when Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’ comes on at a wedding dance, all ages are happy to strut their stuff in front of each other with varying skill. Dancing when drunk is the last true universal art form.

I think I read a lot about music is because i'm looking for a deeper meaning to what seems a frivolous profession. My friend who is an intensive care nurse doesn’t think so. She believes we supply the soundtrack to people’s lives and provide much needed distraction from the struggle of existence. When I’m getting frustrated because I can’t modulate my way out of a bridge or I can’t find a good rhyme, I tend to disagree. I feel a bit silly.

However much I wish it wasn’t true, music is becoming sidelined to the periphery to many people’s existence. It’s not a religion, it’s a pastime. It’s probably not as important as TV. I suppose as a writer I want to write songs that people not only want to hear but need to hear. This is a lofty goal and one I consistently fall short of. Music is still my passion but to others it’s just fashion. Ooh, that rhymes…. Where’s my guitar.